


of begged and borrowed time

by SouthernBird



Category: Rockman X | Mega Man X, Rockman Zero | Mega Man Zero, Rockman | Mega Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, Lots of DASH/Legends Foreshadowing, M/M, Most of the characters are just mentioned, No Beta We Die Like X's Hopes for Peace, Only Want What Cannot Have, Original Characters - Freeform, Original Reploids, Post Elf Wars, Post War Talk, Prompt: Light, Prompt: Time, Requited Unrequited Love, The 'X Really Went Out to Make Elysium' Headcanon, The Guardians Function Before X Seals Himself Headcanon, X Goes to the Moon, XZeroweek2021
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:02:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29574315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: [XZero Week 2021]A human stands next to him, having sidled up to his left where his hand lingers on the wall. Humans have come and gone about the plethora of seasons of X’s life, yet this one entrances him. It, of course, is undoubtedly due to how handsome the man is.And, also, how very much like Zero he looks.
Relationships: X & Zero, X/OC, X/Zero (Rockman)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	of begged and borrowed time

**Author's Note:**

> [XZero Week 2021
> 
> I have had this head canon for years and for some reason, the prompts just-- bit me and would not let go. None of it makes sense and I finally decided after ~7500 words, I needed to post it, haha. 
> 
> Prompts: Time/Light

“Welcome back, Master X. I hope that the journey was not too strenuous?” 

Barely a moment off the ramshackle shuttle haphazardly parked in the Shuttle Bay and already X’s proximity alarms are singing high like an off-key tune as he is greeted by a reploid attendant that has surely been waiting for him. Granted, he is quite tardy as the Judges and Human Council had taken far too long to gruel over the itinerary of the weekly meeting X is forced to moderate, but allots himself two seconds to breathe and stretch the ball joints of his legs. However, if Lodem were anything but overbearing, the leader of Neo Arcadia might have to presume a glitch had fried his circuits. 

“As well as it could considering… our limited resources,” X sighs, rubbing the side of his neck as if to relieve some ache of age or discomfort when there is none all due to his build. The organic motion seems to unnerve Lodem who stands tall in his Elysian uniform of deep plums and mellow creams but he does not press upon it so X merely continues, “we have reports from our Scorched Earth squadron of semi-intact rocket base so there is hope that my next trip might not be so, eh, rickety.” 

_“_ _Did you know that the earliest form of rocketry was missiles used for war?_ _Destructive inventions like that are what has brought the world to its current state._ _”_

A quiver of time's gossamer tendrils ghosts along X's cheek; he does not shake with the chill like he used to. 

“Rickety… I see,” the taller unit replies with a stiff air of dedication to a conversation he may be already bored with, “I am sure our development staff could work on some modifications during your stay.” 

Staying is a loose term as X is quite aware that the responsibilities he has placed aside so nonchalantly will come to rear their ugly heads sooner rather than later. However, progress has been made on Elysium and he is quite eager to see the first foundations of a life where humans and reploids can truly exist—but more so, survive if, well, there is a repeat of the bloodshed still staining and scarring the earth as they speak. 

Perhaps the azure android should inquire if Omega’s ark has been seen floating, the same sealed with all of his unrequited feelings and all of his regrets which will more than likely infringe somewhere else yet again. He would like to keep Elysium well for many years to come, especially when he thinks of the tireless work being conducted by scientists most suited in determining best solution for their captive Dark Elf. Maybe if their work alone creates a scenario fitting for his retirement, he might find some peace here at this moon colony. 

But, that is neither here nor there as such ideas are tantalizing dreams, fanciful star-crossed fantasies thatcommand sacrifice of someone or something to ever be granted. His heart singsongs forlornly of his heaviest price, of Zero’s—damn it all, Omega’s—disabled body trapped in a casket and left to rust in the cosmos while Zero sleeps locked away in his steel mausoleum for eternity fathoms below the surface where human children laugh and reploids give their uneasy smiles. 

Here, away from Neo Arcadia, away from the mask he presses to his face every morning, away from the burdenlaid brick by brick upon the line of his back, he can concoct a scheme that has potential. 

“Master X,” Lodem interrupts, cutting through the thoughts that dance with bitter glee in his superior’s head, “shall I escort you to the Residential Area? There is much to discuss on the progress we have made for our small but thriving population.” 

“Yes,” X one notes, smoothing out the few wrinkles of his robes, admiring just for a moment the cyan and periwinkle dyed into the fabric as the novelty still juxtaposes a century’s worth of adorning armors. 

With such confirmation, Lodem turns towards to the head of the Shuttle Bay, stepping with military gait towards the Control Deck where the elevator waits. There might have been a bygone day when X would have appreciated such purpose, having at one point cared little for the flamboyant formalities that come with stuffy negotiations and truly desired straightforward discussion, but this reploid, the first of the Servitor assembly, is as dull as he is dutiful. It woefully embarks some idea of worry in his heart, but then the tall reploid with eyes ruby red casts a faint, friendly smile and those worries die like peonies in the dark. 

X wonders if he will ever stop being so naïve of others’ intentions. 

“… I don’t suppose you could already start your report of Elysium’s headways? I am curious about the proposal received by the Strong Air Battalion? In regards to a satellite system?” X questions, finding that masking his tone with the evenness necessary in such diplomatic affairs necessitates profound precision as though he was previously informed of Eden. He almost likens himself to a leader untrusting of the very assemblies he helped design, all ranging from Servitors to Purifiers to Janitorials, but the report had been bizarre when an irritated Harpuia swept into the room, demanding immediate audience. 

Preconditioing might be as good an explanation as any for any level of distrust. 

“Ah, yes, Eden,” the other reploid recants as though X should have known of it all while he taps away at the modules of the elevator once they both are present on the lift. A beep resounds through the Bay then the lift ascends into a shaft barely lit by blue lights fading up towards what seems like endless emptiness. The space is small and enclosed, a creeping feeling of claustrophobia wrapping ice-like around the First’s throat, but Lodemcontinues without further pause. 

“Eden is intended to be the first of several space stations that will synchronize communication within Earth’s atmosphere. Our design would not only aid in rehabilitating the original satellite fields prior to the Elf Wars, but also lend assistance for any unsubstantiated events in the future. The blueprints and project revisions are located in Residential's Center Area.” 

“I… see,” but there is an iota of suspicion, some nuisance from his decades of life that rears its head with festering boils bleeding oil that inhibit any possibly chance to be _okay_ with such advances being made on their own. Elysium is his final dream, his every ambition of cultivating peace between humans and robots just as both Dr. Light and Dr. Cain so greatly hoped for. Yet, the granules of such plans seem to spill through his fingers though he grips his fist tightly to keep ahold. 

How he would beg for his partner to be here at his side, to level the weight of it all so they could balance it equally upon their shoulders. Zero, though, has made his choice, to leave this war torn world in X's care. Still, a memory shifts in fractal phosphorescence, and the crimson warbot takes his hands, murmuring between them during hours illuminated by moonshine that while such paradise damn near impossible to fathom, only X could take up the scraps and materialize miracles. 

And scraps indeed; not just of the corpses of every person he has loved, of every person he has held tenderly to his breast, but of his own soul that throbs with lacerated agony from the loneliness brewed from the very carvings of names he whispers in silent prayer. 

Nonetheless, this is the cards he has been dealt by cruel fate as Lodem reminds with his presence alone. If there is any recognition to there being more to the discussion than just relaying data, the Servitor unit does a wonderful job at hiding it. Instead, he rolls on with his statement, not once stopping for an inhale for his vents. 

“Elysium’s Research and Development will scope the best route for Eden’s construction as you and I are aware of the supply shortage that was induced upon on our populations in due part to Omega—.” 

“Please don’t,” X pleads, the wounds both outside and inside his body still too fresh to even allow anyone to so much as hiss that devil’s name, “I am _fully aware_ of what is going on without that name being mentioned.” 

“… Understood,” is spoken plainly with enough direction to perhaps soothe X’s bite while Lodem’s sun-loved hands clasp behind his back as though to broaden his frame against his master’s reprimand. He takes it with great stride, better than most, but the offense is there, too obvious to not be noted by someone who has lost count by how many fellows have turned their backs on him. “Nonetheless, I am eager to hear of your ideas once the scope of Eden is presented.” 

The former Hunter is not certain if he wants to stomach the reality that this ‘Eden’ is now well into some grander schematics as opposed to just a tiny thing that sits on a data pad collecting dust. X’s brow creases, a tell-all sign that he is already imagining the disappointment in Harpuia’s voice that X might humor such plans. 

Time will tell, regrettably or no. 

When the elevator’s hover slows, the black pit above splits then fades with a groan of hydraulics. What seems like sunshine spills upon them in golden rays, the broad strokes of sun’s glorious shine brightening up what has been nothing short of a bleak ride to the surface of Elysium’s dome. It dawns on X once his optics shift to accommodate the change that this day glow is far from natural, yet somehow still registers on his solar readings to permit a gradual charge. There is truly a UV component involved and considering the atrocities that have slammed all of their innovation to the literal ground, leaving him in awe. 

There is naught one bleak color as found in the Shuttle Bay; no, there is a warm myriad of hues that befuddles the First into muteness. In the short months of being kept chained to his chair at the epicenter of Neo Arcadia, this group has created islands— _islands –_ that dot the horizon, all with rainbow-dipped arches that sway with tones splendorous towards the four cardinal directions. Workers move about, human and reploid alike, and there is a timid beep of his receptors to indicate an abundancy of nitrogen and oxygen and when did all this take place? 

A step forward just to make it all the more real, and then a mushed crunch jerks his attention down to his shoes: grass. Real, lush grass as verdant as his own eyes thriving on the moon of all places! The breath he has lost has yet to return while he stands amazed at the fruition of his smallest of hopes. 

“How…?” 

“Reploid and human engineers have accomplished a symbiosis that has put many of our endeavors ahead of schedule,” Lodem states as blandly as if he were reading the definition of bland to X, “it will only be a few short months until we are able to move all of our residents into the houses and utilize the current pods for agriculture.” 

With a jilted turn of his head, X stares down the taller being with an idling wonderment, taken aback from the sheer size of just this one area meant for co-habitation. Not only that, there is vegetation, luscious greenery of grass as found there, that can be attributed to the scientists that harbor in the Neo Arcadian labs like hermits huddled in their coats. Why, this would also mean that Elysium is not already capable of harvesting crops but also that the human population is in fact increasing in number. 

Perhaps salvation is not as far as the gates of Saint James as X had once pondered during a surreal bout when surety was abysmally lacking, yet something is amiss. Something about all this is disjointed as though the this planetary tapestry is seeming perfect yet cloaks the runs found within the weave work. 

“Where is Dr. Hara? It just occurred to me she did not greet me like she always does,” he hesitates to inquire of the wellbeing of who this unit is dedicated to, but as head of the Elysium Project as dictated by X himself, her absence has abruptly slapped him some dire need to know of her whereabouts and wellbeing. There has been no mention of any change of arms or sickness or anything else to his knowledge. 

“It is my solemn misfortune to inform you that Dr. Hara passed away some weeks ago, Master X,” relays Lodem as if he were reciting the definition of ‘bland’ from an archaic dictionary, brittle pages and dilapidated binding all. Nary one syllable that he uttered seems to provoke some recoil, some reverberation of whatever the hell he is saying, and rust it all, let X corrode there as his own footing nearly bends on itself as his reality trembles. 

Then, with a sad hum, Lodem glances over towards the other with softened propensity, “you are still incredibly troubled by the condition the Elf Wars have left the Earth and we thought best to give you such news in person. Forgive me.” 

What the brevity of voice does not reveal, the eyes of the soul do, and Lodem’s ruby orbs drift heavenwards as though his resolve threatens to dissipate into stardust. 

The sputters are molasses slow to emit from X’s tongue, but they come and composure conforms itself back into some semblance of spiny resolve. He would have rather been told when the poor lady had passed, to at least not look like some gobsmacked imbecile when approached with such terrible news here when he is nearly overwhelmed. Of course, the leader had thought he had granted her a cup from a fountain of youth when he assigned her post as head of the development team as she was still brilliant in mind, yet her arthritic joints made her sluggish. It would appear though that the age of a human far outweighs the abundance of promise found in a nascent paradise and his heart hangs heavier for it. 

Duty is an incessant master, requiring of him to gather than sole wisps of whatever should dulcify his hours spent here on this lunar colony turned extravagant. He will mourn later in the quiet recesses of the shadows of his choosing where solitude will accompany him; it would be best, considering, as he is wise to know that burdens are self-kept. Still, some curiosity that meets where his spirit hits the metal bone of his frame and he prompts with a low mutter of, “we?” 

“Ah, yes, introductions are required for these sorts of matters. Please follow me, Master X; I will explain as we go.” 

And footsteps tread through short blades of green, the guiding Servitor unit droning on and on about the layout of the Residential Area with a faint gleam of pride washing over his voice like flotsam on the shorelines. The gates are prided upon first, surmised from advances of the transport servers with linear fields to provide more efficiency, then the layout of the island as to provide quadrants based on the position each citizen held. Reploids and humans would enjoy either communal housing or apartment-style furnishings of their preference, granting all Elysians livable standards, a feat already held true based on how crisp the air smells due to the succinct labor of the filtration systems. 

What holds X’s attention throughout the monologue is that there is a sky—there is a sky that seems so endless it might would invite him to step off the precipice of this small island as to float him along the tepid, manufactured zephyrs. How wonderful it would be to experience this on earth again when the skies are no longer ruddy with sandstorms and rust smoke, but his heart stays dormant with its kept-closed latch of worry as he fears a day like that might never come. Perhaps when his youthful Guardians—the four who each have been gifted a piece of his original armor back for the sake of their schematics— have endeavored in their tasks, will be as splendorous as the gnomic poems once described of her. 

Deep down in the loneliest attic of his chest, he breathes in slow and anguished; such dreams sound so grand. 

“… And here is the Center Area where we intend to house our head scientists.” 

Spring-bloom eyes flicker and focus, and there before X is a more elaborate structure than seen prior covered in symbols unlike any he has seen on their trip up to the surface. 

“A reploid presented such designs to create a universal code. We intend for each unit assembly, occupation, and area to have these indicators to benefit all of us.” 

Something unknown seems to lull X closer to the outer wall, his fingertips tracing over a half arch of one of the sigils. It comforts him somehow, alleviating whatever bees stings and tumble in his throat as here, reploids have been permitted to create something far more unique to their ways than earth could ever permit. The laws of the land were in effect well before X's activation, a societal reckoning where both humans and reploids found themselves in a losing conflict, yet here the scale tips away and balances and along a breeze can he pick up laughter both organic and metallic from across the seas. 

Equality. True equality; it is here found amongst the budding colony swept out of sight except for a trusted few back home. Would he finally be able to untangle himself from the ropes that hold his limbs back upon the throne he despises, hates with a thick putrid miasma of disgust? The weight of his exhaustion drags itself further down his back and he feels the cold chill of worry come to rear forth all the dispositions against such opinions. 

“Ah, sir.” 

But then Lodem turns from X as footsteps approach while the leader is lost in the mental storm cloud where thunder barks with the ferocity of a black dog omen, but a kind, smoother voice drifts right in to pluck X like a blue bird from its perch. 

X does not relay the words whole the faded hum of speech echoes in his aural receptors so he turns to see a sight that might insist he malfunction right then. 

A human stands next to him, having sidled up to his left where his hand lingers on the wall. Humans have come and gone about the plethora of seasons of X’s life, yet this one entrances him. It, of course, is undoubtedly due to how _handsome_ the man is. 

And, also, how very much like _Zero_ he looks. From ice eyes that reflect pools of tides and tundra to wheat-golden hair braided back to trail behind him like a lover’s embrace, the human could be in so many ways Zero's twin, minus of course the lack of wiring and titanium and crimson-lustered armor. No, no, the more X stares like a deer caught in the headlights of a hover tank, he notes a roundness to those cheeks, a welcoming rosiness to abate all nervousness from whoever this man might meet. Even further inspection shows a tenderness that creases at the edges of those eyes. 

But a hollow heart in which longs for a companion who does not long for him back makes X near fluster at the smile gracefully given. 

“What an honor! Lodem had told me we were getting a visitor, but I must admit; I almost did not recognize you, Master X.” 

The man’s voice is melodic, a jovial and warm strum, and it only curls some coy intent along the corner of X’s lips. 

“I could tell you secret,” the First sweetly volunteers. 

A blink of blues so inquisitive that it strikes yet another stab into his heart, “and that is?” 

“It’s the damn robes,” X relents, shaking his head with a grin to placate any assumptions he is not jesting, “they provide a different sort of silhouette.” 

“Ah, I take it then that you must feel entirely out of place without your armor, Master X,” his newfound acquaintance suddenly gasps, throwing up his hands as rouge dusts the apples of his cheeks, “I—forgive me, that’s classified—.” 

At such a sight, a chuckle bubbles from the end of the First’s throat and God, or Gods, or whomever might have lent him an ear at their discretion must have heard his whispered prayers threaded through his interlaced fingerssometime ago. What travesty; he honestly forgot the effervescence of pure illuminance that comes with enjoying one’s company. Has he come to find others so stale and grating? 

“Classified, but not a secret, I see,” he hums in acknowledgment, tugging gently at his fingers as he half-turns as to present himself to this corpulent version of Zero that will surely beguile him, “but I do not miss my armor as much as people would like to hope, I guess.” 

Clouds dusted with an iridescence of tangerine and lilac casually drift along as a silence that prompts a purse of X’s lips befalls the trio, or rather, at least until the human coughs into his elbow, then grins comely as he extends his hand. 

“Let me do this right; I’m Mathias.” 

And he hesitates, his heart a feather delicate thing that might will shatter into some matter of mess if he does not abate himself, but rudeness will not do here regardless. It takes a moment, but X returns the fare, taking the human’s hand with a meticulous shake. “A pleasure to meet you.” 

A glint warms over sapphire eyes and the Neo Arcadian savior salvages his own fluster as he brushes away any notice of Mathias’ grip holding his hand tighter. However, when the time comes for their hands to return to their sides, X might draw his fingertips along the palm lines of health and fortune, a small gesture he performed on Zero’s hands more than once or twice. 

“Our esteemed doctor was formally elected by our development board to Dr. Hara’s position upon her unfortunate passing,” Lodem interjects like the details of such promotion should be more than obvious to even the most lacking of observers. It is yet another juncture in which X ponders if letting the humans have more command of the Servitor blueprint might have more to do with Lodem’s lack of personality or if that is just his natural procedure. 

_Nevermind_ _him,_ he soothes to himself as his eyes cut away from ruby red to colliding azure, that lonely ache longs to know more of this other man though the rapturous grief will most certainly ensnare him once he is back on the shuttle—but for now, he proffers from the low blues of his soul a white lie which hisses in tomes abound that Zero would prefer… whatever this is. 

“Congratulations,” he can only provide, but Mathias give a candidly sorrowful smile before rolling his shoulders into a shrug. 

“Under better circumstances, I would be grateful, but the doctor was my mentor. I miss her terribly.” 

Oh, how he knows how the loss feels, the pangs to snake fang ripping deep into the pulp of a heart laid bleeding when it drops to the ground at the news of a death of someone held so dear. Even after all these years, after the days that have ceased in a blink of an eye, Dr. Cain’s buoyant laughter echoes about around him. 

“She would be quite proud,” is an assumption from a once Hunter, but an assumption not without a base to stand upon, “and I am always eager to see her mind at work.” 

Mathias gleams with the praise, a fair look that does not ease the fervency that licks whimper-soft along the twists and turns of X’s circuit lines. “Come along then. There is much to discuss, Master X.” 

An arm is offered, a cordial moment, but it hitches at X’s breath nonetheless as a decision is now before his path: to take the arm, to curl his fingers around the tone of a bicep, and be escorted on, or to not. Gold blurs his vision and crimson harkens him back home, back to the days in Central Commands and in Hunter barracks before guiding his steps into the winding labyrinth of dim lights along laboratory corridors. If he were told the story before the first page even turned, X presumes he would have laughed full and boisterous as any tale from it would certainly sound so dismally preposterous. 

There he is instead, exhausted of this all. The future seemed infinite at once, potential for peace always a lily’s bloom away as dawn always greeted the day with such passive humility, but now an end is in sight, there across the threshold to a tree of knowledge that houses what may or may not be his grave. 

How funny fate is, to reveal in one hand an out to the restlessness that scars him inside and out, to reveal in the other something near damn ironic. To fall in love again, would that be a crime? Would it be a sin besmirched upon whatever light flickers in the shaded halls of his own soul to cauterize the wound left by his partner with the affections of another? 

If so, perhaps he should press, and X’s lips part in a trembling breath as his hand indeed takes the arm given. A chuckle so warm it must be honeyed dew sings into his ears and then their footfalls find a placid rhythm as they walk towards the main doors of the abode. 

The ambiance is all too reminiscent of the books where methodical minds have penned prose of fairytale loves, of romantic scenes of moonlit walks and seaside elopes not dissimilar to the orange plumes painted over cotton clouds that fly in the overhang above the pair. The First, with all his adornments to collude some aura of tranquility, is almost enchanted, almost enraptured with some charming little eloquence he veils over his eyes so that the cold flood of truth might be staved off. 

Yet, the visit continues with no detriment of apprehension of his common sense, Mathias taking the reins from Lodem to present all of the current projects both approved and pending for Elysium’s success. X learns far too little as Mathias points and speaks over blueprints and text proposals he displays on a wall-length screen to appear ever the studious successor to his mentor, but the leader tries to nod and murmur a quip of agreement here and there.Lodem is there to always provide a comment or two himself, but green eyes are constantly on Mathias while servers roll about how things could be so different than they are planned to be. 

It is hours later while grousing over reploids’ and their bureaucratic roles that the human turns with a sweep of his braided rivers of golden locks to regard X with a peculiarly sad smile, “you must be tired from all of this—this is all anyone does to you back in Neo Arcadia, isn’t it?” 

“I...” 

Mathias is correct and X is scant without a means to fib his way around it. He is tired, so irrefutably tired of duty though he knows that every meeting and every correspondence is meant to strive forward to a future with some stability. Then again, no one has ever stopped the android, to wonder how felt beyond the extravagant cordialities of midnight debates and overly excessive presentations. Hell, not even his own Guardians have inquired that of him, but they are so young and so insistent on laboring themselves for a greater, more resplendent tomorrow. Had it not been for the dire status of the world’s ability to harbor the remaining populations, the leader would encourage them not to burn themselves to the quick as he has done. 

There is no Alia with her caring smile that creases her eyes as she sets down a fresh cup of alkaloid coffee on his desk. There is no Axl with his charismatic bad jokes that fall flat to Central Command’s floor but still rouses laughter throughout the ranks during a tense mission. There is no Palette or Layer to chide him for the drawn-out periods where he dwindles at a mere fifteen-percent battery, no Signas to touch his shoulder to congratulate him on another victory wrought from the hands of poor reploids designated Maverick for no damn good reason, no Douglas to gruff passive aggressive mutterings in concerns to the ride chasers being limped back to Base after an ‘unforeseeable incident.’ 

And, in the end, there is no Zero to stand static along his side when the stars themselves dim then fade into the faint tapestry of a black sky. 

_“_ _It is why we make the best team_ _.”_

He laughs. Hardly recognizing how sad it sounds, he still goes, shoulders shaking as his chest tightens, his ventsworking adamantly when he needs to breathe for his circuit board’s sake, and did Zero not call him _obsolete_ once with a grin so snarky it nearly barreled him over? 

“I—I’m used to this,” X sighs when the jerks of hollow jubilee settle down; the poor human looks so misplaced where he stands, his blue eyes glancing over at Lodem for some sense to be made of it, but none is offered. The Servitor unit shrugs as though X is a paradigm that is merely there for whatever this all is. “I promise you this is just fine. These are what Levi calls ‘stuffy must dos.’” 

“Levi?” 

“Ah, Leviathan, sorry. She is the Guardian assigned to our Deep Sea Squadron, but she has less patience than I do, I think.” 

A fondness fills his voice as he speaks of what he could assume is as close to a daughter X would ever have, and he is loathsome to admit she might be his favorite of the four. He cares for them all, guides them best he can with what useless wisdom he has gained through the conflicts of his life, but really, he should be careful; getting close to them would make what may come all the harder to do. 

It is Mathias’ turn to chuckle, a hand to his mouth as the worries melts from his spine. “She sounds delightful.” 

“Oh, she is, but I warn you: she is more shark than mermaid.” 

Somehow, this earns the former Hunter a groan and a discerning shake of his new companion’s head. The movement is so much like Zero’s back when X was under his tutelage that he almost assumes Sigma will walk through the main door there and remark haughtily on how well (not) X did on the training exam. Certainly worthy of a B Class rank. Nothing higher than that though as he _hesitates_ far too much. 

Fingers tighten together from their place on his knees; that is a name he has not thought about in such a long timeand would Sigma not be so proud of him? His trigger finger is instantaneous now, ruthless and uncaring when faced head-to-head with a supposed threat. Why, the old android can hardly trust himself on the frontlines now and his empathy drains further into an abysmal recess with passing threat in spite of the ghosts that keep him awake to stare listless at the ceiling. 

All the better then that he gifted his gauntlets and buster to Fefnir. The fire Guardian is a quick-starter, a match strike of a temper that flares too harshly too suddenly, but he will even out with time as his passion molds into something far more meaningful. 

“I hope to remember that if Miss Leviathan comes to our humble home,” Mathias remarks with a smile before turning back to the monitor. “Are you sure you are all right, Master X?” 

“Yes,” he gives without a moment to ponder, “please proceed.” 

Eventually, his visit here on Elysium draws to a close and as the trio step out from the Central building, the sky has sunken into a sleepy color of navy blues and plums as faux stars drown the night with their pearlescent glisten. The First allows himself to stop, to just bask in the beauty of something artificially made but still so subliminal. 

“Let me take you back to your shuttle,” and damn this man offering up his arm again, “I want to make sure you board safely.” 

X does not hesitate again, his reluctant anxieties now cooled ash at his feet as he takes the man’s elbow with a small albeit weary smile. “I would like that.” 

It is peculiar to talk to anyone these days outside of the affairs that involve keeping a sanctuary running, but somehow Mathias has plenty of conversation that does not involve the redundancies of the daily grind. His eyes are awash with starlight as he points about to the islands, babbling with buzzed enthusiasm the chemical composition of the dirt that would grant them yearlong harvests to provide for the humans while the excess would go to creating eco-friendly fuel for reploids in the case of an emergency. Though it might be a crude system at first, the head of the Elysium Project conveys his ambitions with confident vim. 

If X did not know any better, and he really should, he would liken Mathias’ exuberance for his work the same as Zero spoke of war strategy and armory installations. Still, such talk rips time’s hands away to quicken the pace and X finds himself before his shuttle which has been outfitted with more durable stabilizers and a larger fuel tank ready for flight. 

“It isn’t much,” Mathias voices in the near empty Shuttle Bay, “but I promise a smooth landing.” 

X nods to his pilot after the hatch hisses open and the stairs dropped, but he pauses to glance between reploid and human. “Thank you; I can see that everything is in capable hands already though I am still saddened Dr. Hara will no longer be around to see her work progress the project forward.” 

“That is our ultimate flaw as humans,” the tall human sighs, each word dipped into the sticky tar of derision, “time is not our servant but our master.” 

A spark which would once illumine with duty flickers obfuscate with a withered need for affection from this Zero lookalike. It practically wavers, X nearly raising his hand to smooth at the crease between Mathias’ brows, yet his knuckles twitch, a burn of incandescent yellow that dies as soon as it flares. 

Reasoning is going to be hard for him when he yearns in the hidden crevices of his lovelorn heart; he will manage. 

“Time is a master to us reploids, too,” Lodem provides with a wistful remorse that sounds strange on his tongue, “Master X will know this better than any active unit.” 

With a hang of his head, X relents whatever stateliness imbued in the line of his shoulders and just hums. 

“Well, this has been a depressing send off, hasn’t it?I hope you will forgive us as we are definitely a more positive bunch otherwise,” and Mathias does something X could not have possibly predicted, decides somehow amongst their prolonged goodbye to take the Neo Arcadian’s hand to brush his lips butterfly soft along the knuckles. “But, I hope in the future that I will not cause you any duress.” 

A misfire is all X can surmise occurs to his CPU once his tactile sensors pick up on the touch, a fractured signal of sudden loss of coherence wracking his alarms as his vision statics and glitches into white snow then clears entirely when back online. He is immobile, marble cold yet ember hot, until his fingers tense and he cannot help the acrid-tinged smile that curves the corners of his mouth. 

In Mathias’ place, he sees Zero, glorious and heralded as crimson smears across a battlefield carnage where twisted shrapnel and oil stains are as much of a comrade as the dead silence. As dust cloud traces their last trails towards a melancholy sky, all X envisions is Ares’ pride standing tall in all his handsome gild. Battle worn and citrus sharp, how near intoxicating he was to watch, viper agile with all his warrior’s grace. 

A hand to his cheek, tender, and then all X smells is fire melting concrete before it snaps away and the Shuttle Bay bleeds monochrome as it shifts right back into place. Were he to be ashamed, the android might relent, might whisper his apologies at such a kind and admiring gesture, but he is hollow, having been torn apart at the ribs and all his cares scraped out. He _wants_ to care, wants to fall into the arms of another that might—oh, who is he kidding? This poor man would be merely be a paltry substitute for whom he achingly desires. 

“A wise, if not cantankerous, old man once told me that worrying ages a good man to death,” X tells him gently, his kissed hand falling slowly down to his side as he swallows down all the remnants of a life long past when city skylines and speeding highways dotted populous across the cartographs, “so take care of yourself, Mathias.” 

Goodbye is a hurried yet hushed affair from there, Lodem using his send-off to forewarn the arrival of future reports sizeable in length while Mathias grants the former Hunter his genial grin as X tarries aboard the shuttle to ease into his seat. His limbs feel limp, stretching out as far as he can while his eyes try to scorch the roof of the shuttle cabin into his hard drive. 

“Take us home, Aither?” 

“As you command,” the pilot confirms, checking the modules and levels after the shuttle has idled into a warm purr.There has been some caution surrounding the use of a precariously manufactured shuttle considering its mismatched frame and parts, but at least the maddening rattle that was present from the stern at lift off is gone. 

Slumping further into his chair, X closes his eyes, wanting so terribly to thwart off the incessant tugs of meetings and problems he will no doubt have to address with an immediate scope once they touch down on earth. If he could, the panic of such a work schedule might sicken his stomach to the point of absolute agony for the flight home. 

However, fate is never, ever so kind to him, and she presses her dagger to his throat once more with a transmission beeping into the radio. 

Aither taps the receiver on the third beep, obliging the call from Neo Arcadia’s brass far more readily than X surely is, “this is _The_ _Empyrean_ : state credentials and business.” 

_“Dr._ _Croire_ _, lead scientist of the cybernetic_ _and electric life_ _force_ _research division._ _Is Master X on board yet?_ _”_

A clock certainly stops, its copper pendulum halting mid-swing as the tired android deemed ‘savior’ tenses and hints a tremor along the static line. “I’m here, Dr. Croire. We should be landing at our drop site near Neo Arcadia within a few hours if I’m needed.” 

The transmission warbles with a sigh jilted on radio waves before Dr. Croire in all her jaded timbre seeps through, “ _I—I am so sorry, Master X, but… you were right._ ” 

X’s lips purse into a line so thin and pale, he might be half dead already. “How long do we have?” 

“ _Maybe_ _forty-eight hours if we are lucky enough_ _?_ _The Dark Elf is exuding too much force that any containment we attempt to_ _utitlize_ _fails, and we lack a reliable power grid to commit to such a high energy seal…”_

“Sir.” 

The cabin grows silent and X straightens up to full length, poise akin to his status while Aethir frowns down at the switches and bobbles of the control panel. What bewitches all of the irritable stampedes that rampage through his head is that there is a dormant peace to all this, a slim chance of closing his eyes and finally sleeping this world away. Eternity would leave him as it has all others to decay, hopefully diminishing this legacy of his into some wayward story few believe and half deny. 

He has prepared for this, known for decades that he has begged and borrowed time against the monolith of odds that stood in towers before him. At least now, he has bestowed his torch to four Guardians who will, if their souls stand true, will be magnanimous in their rule. Or, well, he can only pray that it be so. 

“Aither will transmit our ETA once we have breached the atmosphere. Work as quickly as you can, Dr. Croire,” presides the First with all the solace to be mustered with an inevitable downfall to bear. It is enough, perhaps, or too much, for the sniff across the line it tell-all of the scientist’s opinion on the matter. 

“ _Of course… y-yes, of course, sir.”_

The transmission dies with a fritz of the speaker; his pilot, blessedly, merely clenches his jaw, fingers tightening on the steer, the offense clearly evident along the rigid hold he keeps. 

“Oh, Aither,” X sighs to disguise a twisted elation that knots in his core, “I knew this was coming; rust it all, I’m the one who _proposed_ it” 

The pilot drags his head back and forth in a jerked fashion, jawline hard as he glares out towards the stars as if they dare to inconvenience him. “If we only had more time, then maybe—Master X, we are really all useless without you.” 

And, is that not the funniest thing, because the leader has heard it through the instances of both war and not, from both human and not, all regarding him as if martyrs only come in in a set of one and no more. No, what theirgrandiose gallantry ever did was place him right on that marble pedestal with his laurel of holly, and X is tired, so damn tired, that he is still needed, still warranted to remain in a life never of his own volition. 

So much for Mathias, so much for the folly of flirts and the ever so delicate balance of touch and would-be and perhaps-so. How selfish could the azure android have been? How foolish and naïve could he have been allowed to be before revelation would thunder in his breast and regale in flushed baritone instead of a fruitful prothalamion that his love, fickle and deceitful, was anchored in a fathomless wake of a sleeping man? 

“I am not irreplaceable,” comes concession with a smile that could never wish to meet his eyes, “and it is because of that I will do what is best for everyone.” 

Whatever concoction of a retort Aither could conduct gets caught in his throat, leaving X to merely presume he is now free to count each step that he will take until he meets his grave. In all the bylines he has suffered, how strange it is that it is when he has a means of escape that his soul or luminance or whatever makes him so irrefutably him, burns placidly with this ultimate duty. 

Apathy is a drug, intoxicating and vibrant in its tendrils of grays. Then again, the symbol of progress for both man and machine fantasizes of what afterlife could be granted to someone with sanguine stains that drown what blues he wields. Would it be darkness, a black curtain draping over his optics and leaving him blind and irrational? Or would it be splendor and life, data streams and rainbow beams traipsing along elysian fields? 

Would anyone join him? Would Zero? Could his hand reach out and be taken only for fingers to intertwine into a vice that will never, ever part? 

Some petty laugh echoing about his servers splits his lips into the bitterest of smiles. 

“We will be touching down in about three hours, sir. Please just… rest for now,” Aither mumbles after an hour or more, X has no desire to be sure. The shuttle engines are company he partakes in, letting the low lull ease him into a stasis of half-awareness. 

“I think I will. Thank you.” 

A universe of possibilities fruitless to him now slowly ekes by, seemingly dragging him back to make this saint now pyre-bound for martyrdom suffer the path to death a little longer. A melancholy walk for certain, but time’s cruel mistress flashes the last card she will deal and he can see behind his eyes her simpering grin bleeds putrid oil. 

He smiles right back though none of his usual glow shines forth. No, all that preoccupies X is a word of which is awaiting scythe glinting silver. _F_ _inally_ , he sings. Finally, he can see the last of the granules of the hourglass pour, acrystalline mountain of regrets pooled at the bottom all the same. Soon, it will all recede, and all his borrowed time he stole and connived and pleaded for shall _stop_ and he will cease into sweet, wonderful nothingness with only legacy to carve his name into a cruel, cruel legend. 

_But, w_ _ith a whisper of broken hopes_ _to a_ _macrocosm_ _s of constellations_ _, he prays_ _instead that his name will fade from the tongues_ _of man so that he might have true,_ _undue rest_ _, if only to pretend he will be at his partner’s side forevermore._


End file.
